Christmas Spirit: An Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Age Gap MM Christmas Romance

by Ali Ryecart

  The boy had pride, Roland had to give him that. His gaze fell to the chairs. They were upholstered in the same rich fabric as the curtains gathered at each post on the bed, and the curtains at the window, but they didn’t look like they’d make for a comfy night’s sleep.

  Georgie dropped his battered rucksack by the side of one of the chairs, and pulled off his coat. He sat down on one and wrinkled his nose.

  “It’s like sitting on a lump of stone.”

  The old man, Nicholas, had clearly assumed he and Georgie were a couple. The notion was ridiculous, ludicrous, unthinkable… but a tiny tendril of warmth stirred in Roland’s chest. A couple. It had been a long time since he’d been one half of that, and he never would be again.

  “There must be something that can be done,” Roland said, clearing his dry and gravelly throat.

  “Like what? The old fella was very clear there was only one room available. I’ll kip on the floor because it’s got to be more comfortable than this.” Georgie twisted around Roland to stand in front of the fire blazing in the grate. He held out his palms to the flames, which cast dancing shadows across his face.

  “It’s odd there’s a fire on the go,” Georgie said, turning away from the crackling logs. “I mean, this is the real deal, it’s not one of those gas log flame effect thingies. My aunty had one of those, and this is nothing like that. A big roaring fire like this takes ages to get going, and it’s a bit dangerous leaving it unattended, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose the room was prepared for another guest who cancelled at the last moment.”

  “S’pose.” Georgie turned back to the fire, staring into the flames.

  A cancellation, it had to be, there was no other explanation. The fireplace was deep and tall and built with old knobbly bricks, the mantel above it garlanded with the same mix of holly, ivy and mistletoe that decorated the entrance hall. He’d barely registered it when they walked in, and he knew why. The bed. Big, heavy, dominating the room. A bed made for two, to tumble and roll in the sheets, bodies pressing hard into the thick, soft mattress—

  What the—?

  Roland thrust a hand through his hair. What was he thinking? He was tired, his headache still lingered, and he was hacked off with the whole situation, but it didn’t stop his cock stirring or the tingle deep in his balls.

  No. No way.

  He swung around and dumped his bag on the bed, shrugging off his coat at the same time. He looked around for a phone to call reception to book an early dinner, and demand something, anything, be done about the bed. All hotels carried fold out beds, and there was no reason why this one should be any different.

  “Can you see a—?”

  “Where are the tea making facilities?”

  “What?”

  “I’d have thought there’d be a kettle, and tea and coffee. And maybe some shortbread biscuits. But there’s nothing. I mean, you expect that in hotels, don’t you?”

  Roland smirked. “I expect you would.”

  “Yes, I would,” Georgie snapped. “It’s welcoming. If people have been out for the day, when they get back to their room they just want to flop out with a cuppa, not call room service and have it all laid out like having tea with the Queen. I know that’s what happens at the Manor, but—”

  The knock at the door stopped Georgie in his tracks.

  A grim smile lifted Roland’s lips. No doubt Nicholas had come to apologise about the situation with the one bed. Roland strode over to the door, ready to make his feelings clear.

  He flung it wide, but it wasn’t Nicholas who stood there. Instead, there was a small trolley set up with a Christmas themed afternoon tea. Roland stepped around it and looked up and down but there was no sign of anybody in the deserted corridor.

  “Talk about wishful thinking,” Georgie said, as Roland wheeled in the trolley and set it by the small round table that sat between the chairs. “I can do without a kettle if this is the alternative. What’s this?”

  Nestled against the tiered stand that contained a mix of festive savoury and sweet treats, was a small note. Georgie picked it up. ‘We hope you enjoy your afternoon tea, compliments of the management. Dinner will be served downstairs at eight o’clock.’ And that’s it.” Georgie turned over the card. “I’m going to get stuck in because it beats a couple of squashed bread rolls.”

  “Bread rolls? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Georgie said, flushing.

  Shrugging, Roland turned to study the display with a professional eye.

  The stand was stacked high with well-filled finger sandwiches, small bite sized sausage rolls, their pastry golden and flakey, and pigs in blankets. But it was the sweet treats that took pride of place.

  Deep mince pies, pastry lids dusted with icing sugar; marzipan-rich stollen pieces; slices of Christmas cake, dark, moist, and heady with the aroma of vine fruits and brandy. There were even tiny Christmas puddings, perfect spheres upon which sat sprigs of green icing holly, and scarlet icing berries. It was beautiful, exquisite. It was every bit as good, if not better, than was served at the Manor.

  How come he’d never come across this place? He’d make sure he got some answers from Nicholas, because the room wasn’t giving him any clues.

  Roland cast his eye around, searching for branded stationary or any kind of information folder about the hotel and its facilities. There was nothing. They may as well have been in a private house. Although not many private houses had massive fourposter beds. He pulled open the drawers in the bedside cabinets. Empty. The same for a large, heavy wooden wardrobe. Next to it was a closed door. The en suite, it had to be. The toiletries would be branded, telling him all he needed to know.

  He opened the door, and his eyes widened. Just as the four poster dominated the bedroom, an old-fashioned claw footed bath did the same for the bathroom. Above it loomed an antique style shower and, next to that, a small table was stacked high with fluffy looking towels and plain glass toiletry bottles, holding no clue as to the name or location of the hotel.

  The aroma of tea tickled at his nose. He’d have a cup before hunting down the old man. Roland closed the door and turned back into the bedroom.

  At the table, Georgie was munching his way through the stacked high stand. Crumbs clung to his lips and a pink tongue swept them away.

  “You can’t be that hungry. I had an early lunch laid out for all the staff.”

  Georgie shook his head. “I didn’t have any. Didn’t get any breakfast, either. I was ordered to clean the cold store first thing. By the time I’d finished, breakfast was long gone. When lunch was ready, Bernardo had me washing the glassware. Again. I wouldn’t have minded if they’d needed it, but they didn’t. He’s just a nasty piece of work. He knows I can’t wear the rubber gloves, and that the detergent and hot water make my skin bad.”

  Georgie put down the sandwich he was holding and studied his hands. Roland followed his gaze, and winced. Georgie’s fine-boned, long fingered hands were dry and cracked, red and sore looking.

  “I’ll personally see to it that you have the correct protective gloves, but if you’d washed the glasses according to the specification, you wouldn’t have had to do them again.”

  “They didn’t need re-doing.” Georgie scowled. “I made sure they were perfect, I even had Annabella take a look at them. He made me rewash them because he’s vicious and he can get away with it. And nobody even tries to stop him, because he’s the hot-shot head sommelier and I’m the kitchen boy everybody likes giving a good kicking to.”

  And nobody even tries to…

  Bernardo, Roland remembered, berating Georgie as he waved a glass in his face. Only this morning, but it felt like a lifetime away. He’d glanced over, but that was all. If the head sommelier wasn’t happy, then he wasn’t happy. Georgie’s job was to make sure the glassware was how Bernardo wanted it. It hadn’t mattered that the boy had looked close to tears, his face burning with embarrassment, backed into a corner as the rest of the kit
chen staff looked on.

  As he’d looked on.

  Contrition clawed at Roland’s stomach. Bernardo had only done what he’d done because he could get away with it, because he’d let him get away with it, because it was what he did. He’d set an example that everybody else was following.

  Georgie had missed breakfast, and lunch, and God alone knew how many other meals.

  “I’ll speak to him,” Roland said.

  “Doesn’t matter, not now. He won’t be back until the end of January, and I’ll be gone soon after that.”

  Georgie picked up a mince pie, pausing before he bit into it.

  “Don’t you want any of this?”

  “I’ll wait for dinner.” But then I had breakfast, and lunch.

  Georgie nodded, not meeting Roland’s eye as though, Roland thought, he’d guessed at his thoughts.

  Roland sat back and closed his eyes. The crackle and pop of the burning logs was soothing, the aroma of pine and apple wood filled his senses, and soon he began to drift.

  “These are really good, you sure you don’t want some?”

  “What?” Roland said, jerking out of the half sleep he’d drifted into.

  Georgie, across the other side of the small table, was staring at him, his mouth bulging with food. He swallowed hard at the same time as he picked up another mince pie.

  “They’re better than yours.” Georgie bit down on the pastry, his grey eyes trained on Roland, almost daring him to rise to the challenge of his statement.

  “I doubt that very much.”

  Roland picked up one of the icing sugar dusted mince pies. He inspected it like the connoisseur he was. It certainly looked appealing, rustic without being messy. He bit into the pie and his eyes widened, as sweet yet tangy vine fruit burst on his tongue from the butter rich, crumbly golden pastry. The balance of flavours was a parcel of perfection.

  “I told you, didn’t I?” Georgie smirked.

  “They’re good.” They were more than good, but he wasn’t going to confess that to Georgie Forrester.

  Mince pies, stollen, Christmas cake, each tasty morsel seemed better than the last. Roland tried them all, assessing each and every mouthful. Whoever had baked them was an artist, a master, or mistress, of the craft. He’d arrange to meet the pastry chef, perhaps ask to see the kitchen. Maybe arrange a discussion regarding an opening at the Manor. Whoever had produced baking of this quality was more than worthy of a place at Pendleton.

  “That was lovely.” Georgie slumped back in his seat. A satisfied smile clung to his lips, along with a dusting of icing sugar and a sprinkling of golden crumbs.

  “Yes, I can tell,” Roland said, laughing. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted every single one.

  Georgie’s face flushed hard. “I was hungry, okay?” he mumbled. “This is the first I’ve eaten today. Well, since yesterday lunch time.”

  Georgie rubbed at the dry skin of his red and raw knuckles, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, the muted light from the lamps and the crackling fire making his ink-dark hair gleam.

  He’s not much more than a kid…twenty-one, twenty-two perhaps…

  What had made him think that? Roland never thought of Georgie, hardly noticed him. Except to scold and criticise.

  But that’s not quite true, is it?

  Roland’s shoulders jerked, and he swung his head from side to side. The words had been loud and clear, as though somebody had leaned down and spoken at his ear. He was tired, he was fed up, it was just his imagination… but the words, the knowing words, echoed around his head.

  Because he had noticed Georgie.

  Because he kept noticing Georgie.

  Because a shiver tumbled down his spine every time the boy champed on his plump lower lip, staring out at the world through his impossibly big, soft grey eyes.

  And Roland despised himself for it, because he had vowed never to let himself notice another man again.

  He rushed his fingers through his hair, and stared into the fire, at the dressed mantle, at the ornamental clock on the wooden sideboard. Anywhere but at Georgie, anywhere than at the huge bed.

  Roland felt in his pocket for his phone. They hadn’t had any signal when they were out on the road, but at the hotel it would surely be different. He powered it up. Nothing. No phone signal. No internet. No email. Try again later, the robotic voice said.

  No, he wouldn’t try again later, because who would he call? Who would be expecting to hear from him or would want to hear from him?

  Roland looked up and caught Georgie’s eye.

  “No signal,” Roland said. “Perhaps you should use the landline, ask Nicholas if you can call whoever’s expecting you in London. You should let them know you won’t be back home tonight.”

  Georgie didn’t answer.

  “Won’t your parents—?”

  “I’m not spending Christmas with them.”

  Roland jerked back as Georgie jumped from his seat, his sudden, abrupt movement knocking the trolley hard, sending the now empty cake stand crashing into pieces on the floor.

  “Oh God. Sorry. I’ll clear up.” Georgie fell to the floor, and with head bowed, scrambled to clear the mess. “I’d better go down and tell Nicholas what I’ve done.” He deposited the broken pieces on the trolley. “Hope it’s not an antique or anything, because it looks kind of old.”

  On his knees, Georgie looked up at Roland and gave a small smile, pushing his raven-dark hair out from his eyes. In the flickering light from the fire, its sheen was almost iridescent. And so soft looking.

  How would it feel to…?

  No.

  “If it is, and you have to pay for it, that’s on you.”

  Roland leaped up, darted around Georgie, and with his back to him, wrenched open the zip on his bag, tugging out his toiletries and a change of clothes. He closed his eyes for a second, and inhaled a deep breath before he released it on a long, slow, shaky exhale. Why was he thinking like this? He was the Executive Chef and Georgie was the kitchen boy, for Christ’s sake. There was a strict hierarchy in any professional kitchen, and he was not about to breach it.

  Because he’d learnt the hard way what happened when he did.

  Chapter Eight

  Georgie made his way downstairs. With every step he took, the tread creaked under his weight.

  He’d never been in a hotel like this before, not that he’d been in too many, and certainly not as a guest. With the log fires and dark wood, the place reminded him of something out of a fairy tale. Georgie snorted. It was just a shame he was with the ogre rather than Prince Charming. But perhaps that was a little unfair. Roland was a dick, but he’d made it plain he was going to stump up for the hotel, which kind of made him a generous dick, he supposed. Georgie laughed. He really shouldn’t be thinking about the man’s generous dick. His laughter died away.

  Resentment and relief tussled within him. He’d paid his own way in life for as long as he could remember and being beholden to anybody, let alone Roland, didn’t sit well with him. Yet the stark truth was that he would never be able to afford to stay in a place like this, even half would be unaffordable. Much as it went against the grain, he had no option but to accept Roland’s offer.

  Georgie reached the bottom of the creaky, wooden stairs, and looked out over the entrance hall, silent save for the ticking of an old-looking ornamental clock and a crackling fire, both of them larger versions of those in the bedroom. Georgie groaned.

  The bedroom. With one, huge bed. That looked soft and comfortable and perfect. A bed he wouldn’t be sleeping in, a bed he would not be sleeping in with Roland Fletcher Jones. Georgie smirked. He bet Roland had silk pyjamas. Georgie didn’t have silk anything, he didn’t have pyjamas of any description because he always slept in the nude.

  “Better not do that tonight, I suppose,” he muttered under his breath. He’d wrap himself in some spare bedding, and catch a cab to the station first thing in the morning. Whatever Roland said about his promise to t
ake him to the station, as far as Georgie was concerned the man had more than fulfilled his part of the agreement. Yes, he’d get a cab, but first he needed to order one.

  “Hello,” Georgie called out as he approached the reception desk. “Hello, Nicholas?” he repeated, listening for footsteps or the sound of somebody in the room behind the reception.

  He stood and listened, straining his ears, but all he could hear was the whoosh of blood flowing through his veins.

  Where was everybody?

  Georgie leaned across the desk to see if there was a phone underneath, but there was nothing, not even the old ledger Nicholas had brought out for Roland to sign. With a huff, he turned around. Now he was down here, he might as well explore.

  A door next to the reception led into a lounge. Squishy looking chairs and couches littered the room but the focal point was another huge fireplace, its grate banked up with logs, and dancing with orange and white flames. Just as with the mantles over the other fireplaces, this one too was decked with winter greenery, but it was what stood to one side of the fireplace that brought a laugh to Georgie’s lips.

  A fat, jolly, smiling Santa, dressed in a traditional red suit trimmed with white fur, big black boots, and on top of his head an oversized floppy Santa hat. Red-cheeked and blue-eyed, it reminded him of Nicholas, although the old man’s beard wasn’t nearly so full and bushy. Georgie edged in closer and bent forward to examine the Santa. It was made of plaster and looked old. Very old.

  “Wow. So lifelike.”

  Georgie reached out to touch and—snatched his arm away, stumbling back, catching his breath as his heart raced wild in his chest.

  “Soddin’ hell.”

  The Santa’s eyes had flickered at him, their edges creasing as his smile had grown wider, as his arm had come up to…

  Georgie stared at the Santa, before a burst of shaky laughter bubbled from him, and he shivered, despite the heat in the room.

  Stupid. Just the flames reflecting on it, that’s all.